Have A Nice Day
by libbyQuin
Summary: My Own Private Idaho. Mike reflects on his hopeless situation, and wonders whether things will ever get better. Set after Italy, before Bob's funeral. Rated for language and sexual content.


**Author's Note: This is my first attempt - EVER - at fanfiction, and so reviews are GREATLY appreciated. I love constructive critisism, I believe authors thrive on it, but I don't want to be told that I suck and it's all wrong. Or at least, if you're gonna say that, tell me WHY. Ta.  
Yes, this story is a bit...floaty, a bit unstructured and loose and...meandering. I did that on purpose, to try and capture Mike's thrain of thought/mindset sort of thing. If I succeded in this, please tell me. Similarily, if I failed miserably, tell me, and tell me exactly what's wrong, because it will make me a better writer (hopefully, but no promises).  
And I don't own these characters or any of that stuff. If I did, Scott and Mike would live happily ever after, with no Carmella in sight.  
Oh, and by the way, the lyrics in italics at the beginning and end are from 'Push' by Matchbox 20.  
And now I'll shut up, and we can go on with the show! :)**

* * *

Have A Nice Day

_I don't know if I've ever been good enough__  
__I'm a little bit rusty, and I think my head is caving in__  
__And I don't know if I've ever been really loved__  
__By a hand that's touched me  
__Well I feel like something's__ g__onna give__  
__And I'm a little bit angry  
__This ain't over, no not here  
__Not while I still need you __a__round__  
__You don't owe me, we might change__  
__Yeah we just might feel good_

"It's going to be okay, Mike…" A woman with blonde hair embraces a small boy, and speaks in soothing tones. Comforting, reassuring. The boy starts crying…why is he crying? The woman – the mother – what is she doing? Why is she doing that, why is she leaving? She's walking away; the boy is crying…_it's not fair… _The boy has been crying forever, his eyes are red, his head hurts…a thumping pain, in time with a sound, a hard, driving noise…it's cold…so cold…it's not normally this cold, why am I so cold? What is that sound? God, my head hurts…

I open my eyes. The dream slowly fades. But the cold, and the noise, and the thumping pain in my head stay. I go to clutch at the jacket wrapped around me, but it's not there. I know why it's not there, but I don't want to think about it. The jacket's absence represents something much more, represents the absence of the person it belongs to. The person who left a gaping hole in my life, a hole I don't want to examine…it's like a raw wound, still fresh, still dripping blood, and if I touch it, if I go too near it, it will burn with pain, pain I don't need.

Okay, so the cold is down to the lack of jacket. But that sound…thumping, pounding, the ache in my head thumping alongside it…drrrRRRrrrRRR… It's not just a sound, I realise. I can actually feel it, vibrating through the pavement, making my head throb.

I raise my head slowly, wincing against the ache. I look around blearily…there. Across the road, on the footpath opposite the one I am lying on, is a big, beefy guy with a jackhammer, driving it into the ground, creating that god-awful noise and sending tremors across the tarmac. I stare at the man, in his bright orange construction vest. He's young, probably only my age. I can tell he's new to the job, from the way he puffs out his chest as he works, glancing around as if to say, _look at me, I'm such a hard man, I've got a jackhammer, I'm a construction dude in a fluoro vest._ Yeah, well, he may want people to think he's a big tough manly guy, but out of all the people I get coming to me for sex it's the ones who get work as truck drivers and construction workers because they have to convince themselves of their masculinity that I see the most of. Them, and the middle-aged men who are bored at home and 'just want to try it'. It's them who I really hate – they fuck around for ages, um-ing and ah-ing, and then when they finally decide to get down to it, they're terrible anyway. But, then again, dates when I actually manage to kind of enjoy it - as wrong as I know that is – are pretty damn rare.

The pain in my head has lessened, no doubt due to the fact that the jackhammer's juddering is no longer thumping through the pavement and into my brain. I stand up, slightly shaky, but still managing to stay on my feet. The amount of times I've woken up from one of my attacks, only to try and get up too soon and fall right back down…

It must still be early, because looking around I can't see many people besides the construction crew. Then again, this doesn't look like the sort of area that is always bustling with people. More like the kind of area that is always bustling with gang members. The time isn't really important to me…where I am, however, is something I do need to know.

I look up and down the road, either side of me. I can always tell where I am by the way the road looks. But not now. The road, the shabby houses lining it…totally unfamiliar. I can't be in Portland; I know that city like the back of my hand. I must be on the outskirts, somewhere in the suburbs. I can't really remember last night, but I'm sure I didn't travel far. I must've been picked up and taken here for a date. Any one of these houses could contain the man – or woman, but I don't get many of them – who gave me this fifty bucks in the back pocket of my jeans in exchange for the only thing I can do, the one thing I have to sell. No point trying to remember which house though – no client ever wants anything to do with you after you've given them what they wanted. Even the regulars come and find you for one thing, and one thing only. Well, apart from Walt, good old Walt, the most regular and respectful client a hustler could ever wish for…he's spotted me a tenner, once or twice. Always had to owe him a date, though – no-one ever gives or does anything for nothing, not in my world. No doubt last night's client got what they wanted and waved me off quickly.

I could've fallen asleep sometime during the date, of course, it's happened before. But I've never been paid for a date after falling asleep; no-one who buys sex off the street is that honest. No, I must've started walking back to Portland while I could still remember the way and then had an attack. And now I'm stranded, no idea where I am, and no way of getting back to the city. Not like it's a new situation though…

A sudden gust of wind makes me shiver and once again I go to pull at the non-existent jacket. Whenever I woke up before, that jacket would always be wrapped around me. Even if its owner was going blue from the cold, he'd take it off and wrap it around my sleeping body. Then when I woke up, the first thing I'd see would be his face, and I'd give him back his jacket. He'd accept it – oh, yes, he'd try to get me to keep it, but when he finally and reluctantly took it, it would be with gratitude. But I'd always sort of want to hold on to it, because, well, yes, it was fucking freezing, but also because I could smell a trace of his scent on it, and it comforted me.

Christ, I miss him so much…

I start walking in what I think is the right direction. Does it really matter if it's not? I don't have a home to get back to, there's nothing really tying me down to any one spot on the planet. I'm just a drifter, floating around, looking for my next date. Nothing more. Ever since my mum left, I've been a ship lost at sea, without an anchor. Oh, sure, for a few years there, when it was me and him, then I had a reason to be somewhere. But now, it's back to the way it used was before – drifting aimlessly like a lost ship, a ship with empty decks because everyone realised that I was a hopeless case and so they all abandoned ship.

I _know_ I'm a hopeless case. I know that I'm a complete, total and utter fuck-up with no hope whatsoever, destined to sell my ass to survive until I just fade away.

I wish, more than anything in the world, that he was here with me.

Scott Favor. Son of the late mayor, living proof that no matter how low someone lets themselves sink, they can always come back to the top.

Yeah, whatever.

That's how the city's upper crust viewed Scoot. He spent four years slumming it, working as a hustler and living on the street amongst the scum of Portland, only to return from a spur-of-the-moment trip to Rome with a new fiancée and a new attitude to life. Scott Favor, who changed when everyone expected it the least.

That's not how I saw him. Scottie was my best friend, my protector, the man who cared for me while I slept, who gave me his jacket while he froze, who always carried me back to what passed as 'home'.

The man I'd would've done anything for. _Would_ do anything for, even now. The man who followed me to Rome on a wild goose chase after a mother who didn't want me in the first place.

The man I loved.

The man who said he could never love me back, who couldn't even believe it was possible for me to love him, who left me in a foreign country with a bit of money while he returned home with his new girl. Didn't he get it? I didn't _want_ money. I loved him without payment.

He abandoned me, just like my fucking mother.

Jesus Christ, I miss him.

I thought he'd always be there. He said he would. I'd wake up from yet another one of my narcoleptic attacks and he'd be there, holding my head up off the sidewalk. Sometimes he couldn't wait for me. He'd have to go, on a date or whatever. But no matter what he had to do, he'd always think of me. He'd put me somewhere safe and whisper something to me, telling me he'd meet me later, or something like that. His words would enter my dreams and when I woke up they'd be there in my mind, like an echo. Reassuring, telling me that Scottie hadn't just left me.

He'd always said he'd take me with him. He said that when he was old enough to receive his inheritance, he would take me with him and look after me. Because I certainly can't look after myself. But all that turned out to be a pile of bullshit. He dropped me, left me totally alone in a foreign country, in fucking Italy of all fucking places. Well, he'd always told Bob – Bob Pigeon, his mentor, his teacher, his 'real father' – that he'd take him with him. But he told me that Bob was never part of the final picture. He was lying to Bob the whole time, stringing him along while he needed him, ready to drop him as soon as he no longer did. Lying to Bob, just like he was lying to me.

But _was_ he lying to me? I find it so hard to imagine him doing that. Scott would never have lied to me…

Maybe I _had_ been part of his final picture. Maybe he had imagined me there, beside him, in that enourmous house over on the rich side of the city. Maybe he had it all planned out, and I fucked it all up.

I told Scott I loved him.

It was the truth, the god-honest truth, but now, looking back, I don't know how I could be so stupid as to say it. Why couldn't I just leave everything as it was? Let sleeping dogs lie...Scott wasn't a dog, though. He was…he was an angel. To me, anyway. Let sleeping angels lie. That's better.

I asked him what I meant to him, and he'd said I was his best friend. He'd meant that, I'm sure of it. Why couldn't I just leave it there? But oh, no, I had to do something stupid; I just had to chuck a fucking great spanner in the works.

_I really want to kiss you, man…_ What a stupid thing to say! How the fuck could I be so goddamn stupid? That was the moment, right then, when I ruined my own life – once again. Scott had always planned to take me with him. Scott would never have lied to me. Then I went and blurted out what I felt. Isn't that the one thing I should've learnt during my life? Don't tell anyone what you're really thinking, don't let anyone know how you truly feel. Don't ever let anyone in. It will only fuck you up.

Got that right.

I told Scott how I felt, and I scared him away for good. I told him I loved him, and he decided to marry the first woman who took his fancy and get as far away from me and the world I live in as quickly as possible.

I sound angry. I sound bitter. I know I do. But I'm not. I try to see things from Scott's point of view; try to imagine myself in his shoes. But it's hard. I never really knew what he was thinking, never really knew why he was out on the street with us lost boys instead of in that million-dollar mansion.

He's there now, with his Italian bride. Carlotta? Carmella? Something like that. Does she know who he really is? Does she know what he used to do? I don't know. Does he ever think of me? If he does, how often? When? If he overhears a news story on the TV about a homeless guy fucked to death in a back alley, does he look over to see if it's me? Does he feel guilty about what he did? And if he doesn't, if I never cross his mind – why? Could someone really forget about the person they spent four years solid with? How could Scottie just forget me, after everything we went through, after all the things we saw, after all the times he froze while I slept? Maybe he wanted to forget. Maybe every detail of his 'crusade' on the street has been stricken from his memory, including me.

I don't know. All I know is that while I struggle in what I hope is the right direction, freezing my ass off in the morning frost, Scott and his wife are probably just waking up to a sumptuous breakfast cooked by some chef they hired from France.

I stop walking suddenly. Jesus Christ, I sound so fucking bitter! That's not me; I'm not that kind of person. Am I? When I was with Scott, I knew exactly who I was. Now he's gone and I don't have a fucking clue. I don't want to be bitter and angry. I want to be able to forgive Scottie, to be happy for him. I'm _not_ bitter.

Even in my head, the words sound hollow.

"I'm NOT bitter!" I practically yell, breaking the silence. My words sound even emptier out loud. Who am I trying to kid?

I look at the road in front of me. I look to the sides, seeing shabby flats and a car propped up on bricks in a front yard. I stop and turn around, looking behind me. Nothing that I can see, on either side of the road, or in the distance ahead and behind me, is familiar. I feel like I've been walking for hours. I probably have been. And yet, for all I know, I could be in the exact same spot, if it wasn't for the fact that I can no longer see the construction crew. Am I getting closer to Portland city? Or am I carrying myself further and further away with each step? I look up into the sky, trying to remember whether the sun rises in the west or east. If I knew, I could work out the direction I'm going in...but, of course, seeing as I have no idea where I am or which direction Portland is from here, how would that help?

I look down at my feet, purple spots dancing in front of my eyes, a visual echo of the sun overhead. Realising that I won't go anywhere if I'm not moving, I start walking again. One foot in front of the other along the yellow line in the middle of the road.

I reach an intersection, wondering whether to turn to the left, to the right, or not at all. I stand right in the middle, looking down each of the three roads in turn. Left? Right? Carry on straight ahead?

The intersection doesn't keep me for long. I recognize nothing down any of the roads. And it seems to me that no matter where I go, I always end up back in the same place.

I was there a few weeks ago, alone, stranded, like I am now. But it's worse there – nobody else is around for miles. There's no sign of civilisation as far as the eye can see, save the power lines stretching on forever. I was stranded there, like I have been a bizarre number of times before, just me, the road, and the face.

More recently, I was back there again, with Scottie. We were on our way to Idaho on a stolen bike that refused to start. But it was okay because although, really, I _was_ stranded, it didn't feel like it usually did because Scott was there with me. It was just me, Scottie, the road – and the face.

Two bushes for eyes, a mountain range for hair, and the road as a mouth – the face. That place, that ongoing stretch of highway, is totally unique. It is my road, my own private highway, the one I find myself in the middle of strangely often. There's no other road like it. No other road has that face, that fucked-up face, constantly looking down. Watching your every move. Like it's trying to say something. I know what it's saying. It's saying, 'have a nice day'.

Thanks for your concern, Fucked-Up Face, but I don't ever remember having a nice day.

When we were on that road not that long ago, I tried showing the face to Scott. He just laughed. Maybe, because it has become _my_ road, the fucked-up face has taken a special interest in me, and I'm the only one who can see it. Maybe it's me who's fucked up, imagining faces in the landscape. But I could swear that whenever I am on that road, my road, I can hear it, a whisper in the breeze…

_Have a nice day._

_******_

This is crazy. Last thing I remember, I was on some street I didn't recognize, and now I'm back in Portland, a fair way away from my usual turf, but in a recognizable area. How did I get back? God knows. I must've had another narcoleptic attack, and been picked up by someone, and dumped back in the city. It happens all the time. Fall asleep here, wake up there. That would freak most people out, I know. Never knowing where you'll be when you open your eyes. What a nightmare. But I'm used to it.

After all, it's better than walking.

The fifty bucks I had is gone. I can feel pain in my cheek, and around my eye, and also round my chest and stomach. The sort of pain that quickly becomes visible as bruises. That wasn't there before. Okay, so I fell asleep, got picked up, got beaten and probably raped in some form, and _then_ dropped off in the city.

Most people would've been shocked and horrified if they had been through an ordeal like this. Scott would've been amazed that I could sleep through an ordeal like this.

I'm just pissed off because shit, man, I really needed that $50, and now I'll have to earn it again.

This isn't my normal turf, but I figure it looks like the sort of place to get dates, and I think I remember being picked up here once before. So I adopt the stance which is the hustler's version of a 'for sale' sign – feet apart, hands in pockets, head cocked to one side.

It's not long before a man sidles up to me. He is vaguely familiar…oh yes. Scott pointed him out to me once, told me he was a real pervert who wanted all sorts of sick things for his money. When Scott had mentioned him, a lot of the other guys we hung round with had piped up with horror stories. Oh well. I'm desperate. As usual.

My day just keeps getting better and better.

"Got any rules?" the man asks me. I know what he's on about. Most hustlers have a list of things they will and won't do, to try and retain some control over what happens during the date. Not me though. I'm too hard up to get picky, and besides, why does someone like me, who sells their ass for cash, deserve to be treated fairly? I sold my dignity a long time ago.

Wherever, whatever, have a nice day.

"No, man, down for whatever." I reply resignedly. Won't this be fun.

The man grins, a twisted smile that gives me the shivers. He wraps his arm around my waist and propels me forward towards a black car. God knows where we're going. Doesn't matter. All roads lead to my road, eventually. All roads will carry me towards the fucked-up face. Sooner or later, once again I will hear that soft, half-imaginary whisper. _Have a nice day._

Wouldn't that be nice for a change?  
_  
__I don't know why you ever would've lie to me__  
__Like "I'm a little untrusting when I think that the truth is__ g__onna hurt ya"__  
__And I don't know why you couldn't just stay with me__  
__You couldn't stand to be near me__  
__When my face don't seem to want to shine__  
__Cuz it's a little bit dirty  
__Don't just stand there, saying nice things to me__  
__I've been cheated, I've been wronged, and you__  
__You don't know me, I can't change__  
__I won't do anything at all_


End file.
